Breadcrumbs
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sequel to Quarantine. Sherlock and Molly are upsetting everyone since they formed a connection (love) in the lab, they have scuttled back to their safety zones and taken on gargantuan workloads to assuage their longings. Silly, silly people - you have made the Universe very angry, and when the Universe is out of balance, it will do anything to make things right. Happy ever after? X
1. Chapter 1

**A Prologue: The Hunger**

And so it came to pass that a terrible and wet harvest in the autumn of 1315 brought forth naught but ruined wheat and rotted vegetation. No bread upon the table and no broth above the fire. People hungered and people died, all across the European borders, stretching from the Balkans to the distant shores of Britannia. These afflictions struck heavily again in 1316 and thrice more in 1317. The Great Famine decimated tiny hamlets and large cities and reduced the average life expectancy to less than thirty years old. Hunger takes a hold of you and surrounds you with its tendrils of pain and hollowness. Day by day and bit by bit, it scours its host, until there is nothing left of you except your burning, ravenous desire to find a morsel to get you through the next hour. Society was purged almost to extinction, as was its harvest, and people stepped over previous boundaries of morality to grab the stale bread from the mouth of their neighbour, their co-worker, their friend, their family. And thus, crime became as great an enemy to survival as was disease. What good, after all, are riches, considered Herr Hansel Paniermehl, as he stole the exquisite diamond and fire opal brooch from the bedroom of his best friend`s dead wife, if they are not buying you cheese or bread, or a haunch of venison? And so, Herr Paniermehl, hungry and desperate, took the brooch, since the Fraulein who had starved to death before selling it provoked nothing but anger and resentful shame. Stones will not feed you. Stones will not save you. I shall take a handful of breadcrumbs over a handful of pearls, and I will eat – yes, I will live.

**~x~**

Mary Watson tilts her head as she contemplates her son, sitting atop a checked red blanket, hitting blocks with a wooden mallet. It is not the hitting of the blocks, as indeed, the design and bright colours of all the equipment provided do little but encourage hitting and good natured bashing as part of a baby`s hand/eye co-ordination development. They seemingly get quite a thrill from the smack of plastic on plastic (or wood upon wood, depending on how middle class your toy shop proves to be) and a dribbling, gummy grin went something towards a payback for all of the sleepless nights and questionable nappies.

However.

However, Sholto Watson was a little more – shall we say – _adept_ and _organised _in his approach. A child of ten months would not normally be expected to hit each block with such alarming speed, accuracy and power. _Red, yellow, blue, red, yellow, blue, red, yellow, blue … _in perfect colour order and with barely a pause.

Mary sighs as her husband walks in through the door, bringing forth the night air and chill of an early spring that hadn`t quite established itself.

"Ok, love?" He cocks an eyebrow.

"It is more than possible our son will grow up to be a highly trainable and potentially violent sociopath. That ok?"

John Watson puts down his briefcase and rummages around the cupboard, looking for a rich tea biscuit.

"Sure," he comments idly. "We really do need to start some kind of club."

**~x~**

Pasta shells, tomato and basil sauce, garlic bread. Passable. Tasty, even. A glass of red wine does little but add to the satisfied and relaxed contentment owned by John Watson that evening. He watches his bright eyed and mysterious girl across the room and parses a question to himself - _what the hell would I have done with a normal woman_?

"Stop looking smug, John."

"You aren`t even _looking_ at me! How do you know what my facial expression might be (which is not smug, by the way)?"

"I feel it," she looks up, the smile adding sugar and making him smile back, in spite of himself. "I know it. Tell you something else I know, too – "

"Ok, what?"

"If Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper don`t do something about each other very, very soon, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

A throwaway phrase? Not always, in John`s experience, as it happened.

"You don`t buy the `_it was down to a heightened sense of unreality caused by the life or death situation in the lab_` angle that Molly Hooper is pedalling these days then?"

"About as much as I buy Sherlock`s current rabid, manic and frankly, ridiculous workload as pure coincidence, since their little lockdown in the _lab of love_."

"Don`t say the `L` word in the same sentence as Sherlock`s name. There is a by-law, apparently…"

She steps silently over to his chair, looking down through spiky lashes and indigo eyes.

"Seriously John, something needs to be done."

"We can`t lock them in another laboratory and spring a virus. Sherlock would guess a rabbit was off."

"Soon, John," Mary was ominous and calm. "Or I set Sholto on them."

**~x~**

"Er … is that Mrs Hudson?"

(_sounds of panting and breathlessness_) "It is – yes … "

"Are you – are you _ok_ there?"

(_more panting, slightly abating_) "_Two_ flights of stairs … "

"Ah – is Sherlock there, Mrs Hudson? I`ve been trying his mobile for the last hour. I have some rather brilliant news regarding the Talisker case – "

"Ooh, not the bone shavings?"

(pause)

"Well – yes, yes, that was the case – although I didn't realise Sherlock shared so much infor – "

"He likes to talk out loud – quite a bit, Detective Inspector. Sometimes I`m there, sometimes I`m not. He misses John, you see. And he used to like going to chat to Molly, but he doesn't even do that now, so it`s just me and Billy."

"Billy?"

"His skull."

(_further pause, whereby a throat is cleared and papers are shuffled. Sighing can also be heard_) "Mrs Hudson, if Sherlock is there - "

"He isn`t. He went out about twenty minutes ago to see his architect, and I am frankly quite pleased, since the sooner this mess is sorted out the better. As if the place wasn't a sight for sore eyes at the best of times; but since he`s decided to turn my basement flat into a laboratory – "

"Your basement flat?"

"Yes dear, 221C. Since the – _unfortunate incident_ – with Mr Magnussen, people have been rather generous, and it seems Sherlock wants a laboratory closer to home, rather than traipsing over to St Bart`s all the time (at least that`s what he said) so here I am, knee deep in drawings, mock-up models, all sorts of samples of test tubes and magazines – oh, the magazines!"

(_weakly_) "Magazines?"

(_rustling is heard_) "`_Which? Homogeniser_`; `_Your Laboratory_`; `_100 Top Centrifuges_`; `_My Microscope_`, you know, dear. And the salesmen (or `reps`, as they insist on calling themselves) trailing through my nice clean carpets day in, day out, not to mention the builder …"

"Mrs Hudson! (_loud, then a tad quieter_) – please. I just wanted to let Sherlock know that the Talisker grandfather was Dutch, just as he said, and we were able to source his records to Interpol in Amsterdam. They`ve just picked him up at the port."

"Oh_, good_! That`ll be an end of the bone shaving then. I _am_ pleased. Goodness, hasn't Sherlock been busy? That`s the third case your people have called about just this week. He just doesn't seem to stop these days. Always hungry for a good murder, that`s our Sherlock."

"Yes, yes. That seems to be _our Sherlock_ these days. (_pause_) Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Please let him know, and I hope the place gets tidier soon."

"I shouldn't hold my breath, dear."

**~x~**

Bill "_The Wig_" Wiggins cuts quite a dash these days. Filthy polyester and taped up hi-tops have made way for crisp cotton button down collars and trousers more `_woollen_` than `_Woolworths_`. His shoes (black brogues, with more than a lick of polish gaining glint from the pale evening sun) tap lightly across the flags of the Baker Street pavement as he prepares to alight the stoop to 221B, only to stop dead as he comes face to face with a small figure sitting upon the top step. Sitting and sucking a blue lollipop.

"What the devil are _you_ doin` here?"

"What are YOU doing here?" A bright blue tongue adds a less than delightful stab of cheekiness to the proceedings, as Archie gives his elder very little respect indeed. "I was here first," he adds, for good measure.

"Shouldn't you be all tucked in in beddy-byes, `aving a nice story off your mum, instead of bothering famous consulting detectives with kid`s stuff? Sherl – Mister `olmes is _a very busy man_."

Blowing a curl out of his eye-line, Archie regards Wiggins with considerably less appreciation than his fluorescent lolly.

"Yes, I know he`s busy, which is why I`m helping him."

The (slightly disgruntled) older man can barely suppress a snort of derision.

"Helpin` him? Getting under `is feet more like!"

"No." The boy`s self-confidence and assuredness was increasingly unsettling. "I have been cataloguing. `_Violent deaths involving piano wire and ground glass`._ It is a _reeeeally_ large file, actually. What _are_ you doing here? Looking for some more of his shirts to wear?"

"You cheeky little – " Wiggins has most certainly raised a hand to a child before (life on the streets from the age of 10 necessitates such behaviour), but he is attempting to mend his ways in his quest to impress upon Sherlock Holmes what an excellent protégé he would make, so his fingers twitch but stay at his side. The cold press of fear suggesting there may be competition in that area could unfortunately not be nudged away. Damn that little sh –

"Sherlock has asked me here expressly to discuss the case of Admiral Abernathy, if you must know."

Distressingly, Archie waived his words away with a dismissive hand (where had he learnt _that_? Sure, the lad was a quick study …)

"He`s solved it. Calculated how far the parsley had sunk into the butter on that hot sunny day. It couldn't have been anyone except the PA. He`s been arrested."

Fuming, poor Wiggins gathered together the very few brickbats he had left in his artillery and prepared to take aim.

"If you`re so welcome, son, then why, may I ask, are you sittin` on `is doorstep? Is it the _naughty step_? Been a naughty boy?"

Archie (_arch-enemy_?) suddenly cracked down his baby teeth and the blue ball of glucose shattered and exploded into his mouth in a million shards of delicious sugary destruction for his dentistry. He did this whilst smiling and maintaining a weather-eye on his rival.

"Actually, there has been a _slight_ accident with some acetone and iron filings and the fumes were making my eyes go funny. He said my coughing was putting him off, so I`m sitting here till the smoke clears."

Suddenly, the fight went out of Bill Wiggins and he sat down heavily next to Archie, glancing up at the windows above their heads. A murky and sulphurous miasma of fug could indeed be seen creeping from the barely cracked open sash windows.

"He needs to be in a lab. A house aint no place for toxic stuff."

"Yeah, but the basement isn`t ready, and he won`t go to St. Bart`s anymore."

Wiggins shakes his head. This is not new information, but it is still sitting heavy with him.

"He needs to, mate. He really does need to," he sighs.

**~x~**

* * *

**A/N: Hello everyone! So glad to be back. **

**I sincerely apologise for the fact that a Sherlock/Molly story has a first chapter with no actual Sherlock/Molly interaction. **

**Oops.**

**Please stay with me, for there is so much more to come, and they both have so much to say ... x**


	2. Coping Strategies

_One track mind like a gold fish  
Stuck inside my Petri dish  
I can't breathe and I can't smile  
This better be worth my while… _

_(Marina &amp; the Diamonds - Numb)_

* * *

Are all builders idiots, or is it only the lantern-jawed, monosyllabic buffoons laying waste to Mrs Hudson`s basement who wear that label so adequately? A working speed that would enrage the lamest of tortoises and most elderly of snails seems to be _de rigeur_ at Baker Street these days and there appears to be very little I can do about it. Alongside a more than primitive attachment to basic tools and half hourly tea breaks, the troglodytes inhabiting the skeleton of my (potentially beautiful) new laboratory seem annoyingly oblivious to my very clear and directed rudeness and impatience (I did make an attempt at being subtle, but that is five minutes I shall never get back). Subsequent to my pointing out the positioning of the powerful ventilation system would result in an appalling assault upon the auditory senses (the acoustics of a room are so very important), `Mickey` (_secret wife in Houndsditch_) scratched his neck (_tattoo infected – almost certainly inflicted by aforementioned secret wife and yet to be explained to second, more official version_) and yawned in my face (_at least thirty units of alcohol the previous evening – unpleasant deduction at 10 am I must report_), proclaiming:

"Ah, keep ya hair on Mister Holmes, it`s all going to come out in tha wash."

In his case, on so many levels, I hope this to be true.

**~x~**

A slight buzzing in my left ear revisits a thousand earlier noisy irritants from below stairs, and I am about to stomp down them again (which would require moving from the sofa – an unpalatable idea) when John Watson`s face swims into focus before my eyes (John often surprises me with his magical properties; always ready with a pen or a cup of tea before I even realise I needed one) and I suddenly understand the source of the buzzing – he is speaking to me.

"Anytime you feel like answering, that would be just great."

A quizzical line has appeared between his brows; quizzical or sarcastic, it is sometimes hard to decipher which.

"Hmm. Thinking." I steeple my fingers and notice a distinct lack of either pen or tea in his hands. He looks weather-blown and damp around the edges and judging by the slightly drying, less damp patches around the hem of his trousers, I deduce he has been in the flat a little longer than he has deemed acceptable, before attracting my attention. Frown, dampness, biro stains on fingers (burst pen) and splatter of soup on shirt (bowl too hot when removed from microwave – spillage) collate a less than appealing picture of John`s work day, therefore I decide to tread carefully and elect to coddle him a little. He deserves it, after all.

I get up abruptly, causing him to take a sudden step back, unfortunately catching his foot on a (rather large) pile of tile samples. The pile (again, unfortunately) affects to topple over, hitting the corner of a small side table, itself a receptacle for a dozen (or so) magazines and catalogues (research! Always do it!) which cascade onto a floor that hosts several cups, all at various stages of fullness. Suffice to say, within a second or so, the dampness of John Watson has been exacerbated by him overbalancing and landing amongst the unlovely coagulation of day-old beverages, tiles and catalogues.

Words are clearly beyond him as he looks up at me with enough venom to fell a charging rhinoceros at a thousand paces. I recall my earlier intent and conjure up (what I hope is) a winning smile.

"Tea? I was just about to make some."

**~x~**

**"**Isn`t this just a tiny bit ridiculous, Sherlock?"

"Sugar?"

"Don`t take it – as you know – so answer my question and we can all go about our business, and I can go home and get out of my coffee stained trousers."

This may be more difficult than I had anticipated and I internally chide myself for underestimating the tenacity of Captain John Watson (of the Northumberland Fusiliers); he was, as he ever enjoys reminding me, a soldier.

I sigh, but he knows I am playing for time. This week alone I have placed two murderers and a sex trafficker into the hands of New Scotland Yard (as well as uncovering the whereabouts of a prize-winning angora rabbit) and should be radiating confident diffidence from every pore, but John sees through me.

He knows … he _knows_.

I crumble a custard cream and regard the second stain (today) fading from the carpet in the morning sunshine. I sense his deflation and understand he is trying to be – gentler.

"Sherlock, I – we are worried about you. You have been embarking on some one man crusade through the criminal classes of London, whilst taking on more private clients that I could have thought existed – "

"It seems your blog has one or two readers after all," I comment, grudgingly (yet ever wary).

"Yes, and you seem to be solving just about everybody`s problems – except your own."

"I have no problems of my own, John."

"Yeah, that`s right. It`s a perfectly _sane_ idea to suddenly decide to rip out your landlady`s basement and ship in £25,000`s (at a conservative estimate) worth of deluxe lab equipment, _just in case_ you need it."

I hold my tea, but although the china handle burns into my finger a little, I cannot lift it to drink. I feel my throat is tight and the very idea of ingesting anything seems impossible.

"I _do_ need it. There have been one or two unfortunate incidents recently – "

"You have a lab at your disposal whenever you need it at Bart`s. All this – " He throws open his arms wildly to encompass the room (truth be told, it _has_ looked better) and stares at me, all wide eyes and sincerity. " – _this_ is all smoke and mirrors! Deflection! You have decided you can`t go to Bart`s, so you are building Bart`s here."

I put down the (now scalding) tea cup and stand, since I cannot look at his expression and continue in my faux-nonchalance a moment longer. Two long strides (avoiding a stack of slides) takes me to the window, where the metropolitan buzz of Baker Street carries on beneath us. Usually a soothing sight, but it does little for me today.

"It makes perfect sense, John, to build a laboratory here, since I have the funds, the space and the inclination to do it."

As I see a dark suited man in a covert coat and carrying a Smythson briefecase alight from a taxi and raise his hand to the knocker, I have never been more grateful for a hefty client list and a burgeoning diary of appointments.

"Sherlock – " the bell rings and he falters, as I knew he would, but his eyes are on mine and we do not need to parse any further. John stands, adjusts his damp clothing and lifts his coat from the arm of his chair. It is not until his hand has touched the doorknob that he turns to me, and I know there will be an addendum; a parting shot, and that I deserve it.

"You can pretend to yourself, but don`t insult everyone else – "

I watch him, silently.

" – and don`t make a mistake, so great, that you will regret it until you are lying in bed, drawing your last breath."

Oh, John, always the writer at heart.

"Don`t fuck about with love, Sherlock, or you WILL find yourself on the losing side."

And he is gone.

**~x~**

The man (obviously a solicitor) acting on behalf of my most recent (and intriguing) client sits opposite me and rests his briefcase across his knees; not about to place it on a coffee stained floor, or, in fact, out of his sight, for even a moment. I need his trust and compliance; therefore I gesture towards the case and am moderately pleased when he hands it over to me. He is pale skinned and clearly recovering from a recent (glandular?) problem. His cuffs and collar are too loose, but his shirt is an old favourite (slightly frayed but retained for sentiment, despite the remainder of his garb being of the highest quality and condition). Recent, cannula-sized punctures are also visible on the back of his hand, indicating a hospital stay of some seriousness. He coughs and I am drawn to his face and his very black eyes. Quite mesmerising, actually.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes."

Hmm. German. If I am correct, a hint of a Stuttgart accent? No, too harsh, more likely –

"You are from Frieburg, I believe?"

No surprise, merely a polite incline of the head. His hair is sparse and plastered across his scalp with some kind of product. He is sweating despite the moderate temperature of the day.

"I do hail from a small village near there, Mr Holmes, indeed. I am here, as you are no doubt aware, to act on behalf of my client, Herr Friederich Lebkuchen. This is an extremely delicate matter, which I am sure was impressed upon you at the meeting with my emissary last Tuesday …"

Oh, boring. The delicacy and self-importance of so many of my clients too often sends me into a tail-spin of irritation and impatience. Each (naturally) feels their case to be unique and `delicate` and unable to be solved without application of the most discreet kid gloves. I allow him to prattle a little while, until my mind begins to wander to my conversation with John Watson and my most recent visit to Bart`s, and I suddenly attend him with the focus he probably deserves. I declare:

"I have the diamond brooch."

He stops so abruptly and his face drains of the (very little) colour it had, I momentarily wonder if Mrs Hudson has any brandy.

"You – you have it?" His voice is so frail and brittle that I immediately realise that this could have been handled with a little more – _John Watson_. What would he call it? _Tact and diplomacy? Break them in gently? A bit not good?_ I attempt a smile to reassure.

"Yes. It was simple once I had the housekeeper`s address, and knowledge of her predilection for honey-flavoured gingerbread."

He nods, uncomprehendingly, and I recognise a state of shock when I see it.

"The important thing is," I add, smiling again (_feels odd – does it look odd? I need to practise in a mirror more often_), "that Herr Lebkuchen will be reunited with a family treasure that has been lost for almost seven hundred years. This is a moment to celebrate, Herr ? …"

"Schwartz," he croaks (how appropriate, with eyes of Whitby jet), "Herr Schwartz. Mr Holmes, you have no idea what this means to my client and his family… how long they have searched for this brooch. It is an artefact that only brings good fortune to the one who rightly owns it. Nothing but disaster can befall the thief who takes without permission. It is a gem that demands truths."

I contemplate the fate of so many of the Paniermehl family, who`s ancestors had stolen this bauble so many years ago (_murder; blackmail; bankruptcy; public shame_) compared with the rightful owners (_multi-millionaires – hotel magnates and owners of Black Forest luxury hotels and log cabin retreats world-wide_) and wonder if it was perhaps best to leave it well alone, but what the client wishes –

I reach down, beside my arm chair and retrieve a small, black leather case. Its corners are worn and its clasp is loose, but the mere sight of it invigorates my visitor with a lifeforce hitherto unseen.

"May I?" He whispers, and I flip it open to reveal a rather disappointing mottled golden oval of beaten metal, inlaid with five, uncut diamond of moderate size and unknown clarity. However, my previously laconic solicitor can only stare in reverence, then, reach out a claw like and shaking hand. He does not lift it from its black velvet nest, but merely brushes the gentlest of touches across its ancient lustre. It is quite a thing to watch, and I can only surmise that Herr Schwartz has more than professional links to the Lebkuchen family and the restoration of their family treasure.

Without further ado, I transfer the venerated diadem to his briefcase and place it next to my chair as I manage to find a small bottle of brandy (John`s) from beneath an old tea cosy and the lid of a board game box (_Cluedo – ridiculous_) for my client`s representative. Molly would be proud of my solicitousness regarding another human being.

_(Molly)_

I admit to being truly relieved when he stands and takes his leave, retrieving the briefcase and setting on his way. He is overflowing with gratitude (_much as they usually are; more so, in fact_) and takes my hand at the top of the stairs. It feels like dead leaves.

"I cannot tell you, Sir, what this will mean to my client. To all of us. We owe you a debt which can never be repaid."

"My services are costed on a scale and rarely alter, except when I omit them altogether." I smile again (_becoming better, I hope_). "My enjoyment of the case was its own reward, I assure you."

And Herr Schwartz and his precious cargo disappear into the encroaching dusk, as I stand atop the seventeen stairs and wonder how I will occupy my mind for the next twenty hours, until my nine o`clock appointment arrives.

**~x~**


	3. Coping & Moping: A guide by Molly Hooper

We are in the woods, the forest. The smell of pine and a note of birdsong in the summer sky, and the sharp prickle of the forest floor scratches at my back with the callous grasp of nature. I open an eye, then two. Late afternoon sun slants through the spiky branches overhead. Pine trees are so high, so straight, so hard and strong against the sky; dark fingers are my canopy, spread across the deepening blueness.

I feel a weight across me and I squint at her, so tightly that tiny corollas form across my lashes and hexagons of light dance into and across her brow. The sun melds to her beautifully freckled shoulder, skimmed by a heavy shank of silken hair. As she leans towards me, I sense the whiteness of her smile and the flash of her eyes as her lashes lower then open, and they lock with mine, and her pupils are big, black and _– infinite._

Rocking forward, she shifts and I feel a heavy pulse from within; its solid insistence tells me that it will grow and it will grow, and it will bend me to its will. It throbs and thrums like a heartbeat – like _my_ heartbeat. She is moving above me and the birds soften their chorus, like a cloud has passed over the sun, and she leans into me again … and again …

Warm breeze, bird song, pine needles, hot panting, heart beating … her soft fingers leave the pulse in my neck and lift to her hair, my eyes following, as if invited, and the sun glints across the gold in her hair and the five uncut diamonds set into that gold. Fingers caress the brooch and a fire-like glow begins to emanate from each stone as it is touched, and as they pulse and glow, I feel that pulse within myself, building, growing stronger and pouring outwards; skywards.

Her hand touches my shoulder and brushes across … touches and pushes away, and where her fingers brush, a trail of golden light follows. A deep and unequivocal knowledge suddenly enters my brain and I grasp her hand, halting its golden journey across my chest.

"You!" (_dear lord, I am gasping_) " – you are a witch! You have bewitched me."

Brown eyes and dark lashes, red mouth, white teeth smiling; she is still moving against me. The pulse is much stronger, building, almost unbearable.

Soft mouth, hot breath against my ear, whispering.

"You were _so lost_, Sherlock, so lost until I found you."

And the golden brooch glows brighter, so bright, with a vivid, brilliant, blazing intensity that the trees, sky, birds and even the sun are swallowed up into its searing glare –

_I have found you_.

As I open my eyes against the coolness of the encroaching dawn through half drawn curtains, I am unable to even untangle my legs from the twisted sheets or raise my head from the sweat-soaked pillow case. All I can do is close my eyes against the world I now inhabit and acknowledge that it has never looked so grey.

**~x~**

_I feel numb most of the time  
The lower I get the higher I'll climb  
And I will wonder why  
I got dark only to shine  
Looking for the golden light  
Oh, it's a reasonable sacrifice  
Burn, burn, burn bright._

"How many boxes?"

Joanne, my APT is approaching my work bench with a clipboard and an apparent non sequitur. It says a lot, however, about the love of idle gossip in the lab that I know instantly what she is talking about.

"Ten. He says he meant to write `two` on the requisition form, but was distracted."

"Hmm. More likely he was knackered due to overtime. Sanderson`s on the sick – again."

Our boss, Mike Stamford is the most thoughtful, unassuming and thoroughly pleasant man to work alongside, so even when taken advantage of by work shy colleagues, he would always choose to give them the benefit of the doubt and apportion no blame. The rest of us regularly did that on his behalf, of course.

"So we now have eight extra boxes of yellow labels? Where the heck are we going to store them?"

I sigh, running a gloved hand over my back, which was aching from all the standing. Hmm, let the record show that my bottom did feel (I twist round to see) and possibly look, quite a bit smaller than when I last checked. Well, something good has to come from no appetite; there has to be some kind of payback. Trips to Tesco and meals out have become more of a chore over the past few weeks, and I have fallen completely out of love with the vending machine in the corridor. We are so over, they are going to have to find a new word for `over`.

"When you`ve finished checking yourself out, Molly – any ideas? Labels? Where shall I put `em?"

I look back towards my slide and decide it`s now too dried out to be of any use. Depressing.

"Do you really want me to answer that, Jo-Jo? Here," I hold out my hand. "Give me a few packets. Maybe I`ll get round to making that batch of jam I was thinking of making."

Yeah. Molly Hooper, cat-owner, jam-maker and dried up husk of a lonely spinster … maybe a new hobby is the answer.

**~x~**

Fun fact – Mary Watson bakes her own bread. She can also make a kill shot from five hundred metres away (whilst moving) but she`s also one hell of a baker. Therefore, it comes as little surprise to see her entering my lab that lunch time with a basket across her arm simply oozing baked goods aroma (yes, even cutting through the pretty pungent olfactory offerings the Morgue was sharing with us all).

Despite my lack of appetite, she did make me smile a wee bit.

"Little Red Riding Hood," I say, pushing a cup of coffee towards her, and she smiles back. "What big eyes you have."

"All the better to see right through _you_, Molly Hooper," counters she, clearly going for another kill shot before I can prepare myself. Ooh, I am not ready or able to talk about this right now. Or ever.

But, Mary puts down her basket and accepts the coffee without further comment, although I get the feeling she is cocking the rifle for the next assault. Attempting a distracting move, I ask her what tasty treats populate her basket as I nonchalantly place (too many) test tubes in the centrifuge.

"Gingerbread. It was my made up grandmother`s recipe. It`s not actually for you, Molly, I baked it for Mrs Hudson`s birthday tomorrow, seeing as gingerbread is her favourite."

"She told me chocolate krispie cakes were her favourites."

"Well, she did tell John she was more than partial to Battenburg, but I guess she`s just hedging her bets. I`m going to drop it round to Baker Street when I get Sholto from Baby Yoga."

"Oh, God."

"I know. I`m desperately hoping that by finding his inner Chi, he`ll decide not to snap people`s necks as a career choice. It`s nice to have aspirations for your children, don`t you think?"

"Mary, this is a bit of transference, isn`t it?"

"Hmm." Mary puts down her cup and looks at me thoughtfully, and I`m suddenly a little fidgety. "John went to see Sherlock yesterday. He`s even more bat shit crazy than usual, it would seem."

Just his name – oh dear God, I only need to hear his name and the palpitations begin. When, oh when is this going to end? It was just a few days of cabin fever… transference … getting close to someone in a life-threatening situation. It`s a classic – Stockholm Syndrome, or some such thing. And I could live with it, I truly could live with this longing if I hadn`t, just for one moment in that laboratory, wearing those ridiculous Hazmat suits, seen a look pass across his face. _A look. THE look_. I would like to say I imagined it, with the stress and all, but an (erratically beating) heart tells me otherwise. But it`s no good, you see. I can never say anything, and he never will, because he simply isn`t that kind of man. So beautifully brilliant, so splendid and triumphant, but Sherlock Holmes can never be my happy ever after, and we both know it.

Suddenly, Mary Watson is at my side, looking into my face and I don't see the bread making sniper, I see a concerned friend, since her eyes are kind and querulous.

"Oh, Molly, I`m sorry. I didn`t realise how much this had affected you." She pauses, _looking_.

"You`re in love with him, aren`t you?"

"Ha!" I brush away her concerns, but turn away my face, since my treacherous eyes are prickling with tears. "Trust me to seek out the least dateable man in London (if not the world) to fall for. Why do I never make it easy on myself?" I gather my emotions, for enough tears have been shed over Sherlock, and if I cry any more, I _will_ be that dried out old spinster.

Mary pats my shoulder ineffectually, searching for something comforting to say, until:

"Second most undateable man in London … whole lot worse if you`d fallen for Mycroft."

**~x~**

Mr Readshaw told me absolutely nothing. I had gone to an indecent amount of trouble to find a reason for his untimely death, but his corpse offered zero in the way of knowledge of its cause. Internal organs? Utterly fine. No skin lesions, no unusual spikes in the blood work, no cause for concern, bar utter absence of life.

Ah, isn`t that sometimes the way of it, though? A million reasons why something might be so (or not so) and yet that something remains elusively _un-so_ and _unsolved_. Gah! Where is a detective when you need one?

I pull off my gloves and throw them into the bin. The day has been long and the pining has been mighty, but I remain hopeful of a bearable evening, since I have a _Marks &amp; Spencer_`s ready meal (king prawns – perfect) and Season Five of _Breaking Bad _to crack open (am hoping for a happy ending for Walter and his lovely family). Lab coat hung, handbag found (no messages), lab clear – oh shit …

Lab _not clear_.

Little Red Riding Hood`s basket of gingerbread lies on the bench, across from the centrifuge, like an invitation. Or a warning.

_If you go down to the woods today …_

Mary, I`m not doing it.

I`m really and truly not doing it. Mrs Hudson clearly has a very eclectic taste for cakes and pastries, and one, missing gingerbread will not trouble her very much.

Yep. Am ignoring the basket and stepping out into the early summer`s evening to partake of conveniently prepared seafood and a morality tale about meth labs (I could easily knock up a batch, but I have some jam to take care of first) – just watch me.

I`m on the tube. I`m on the Bakerloo line. I`m holding a basket of gingerbread. Do not judge me, for you have not walked a mile in my shoes.

**~x~**


	4. Sherlock drops the ball

_Forgo family, forgo friends  
It's how it started, how it ends  
I can't open up and cry  
'Cause I've been silent all my life._

This is bad.

Very bad.

How has this happened? I look down at the Lebkuchen brooch again and the physical evidence of my very own eyeballs tell me that I have sent Herr Schwartz back to his client with a briefcase full of tile samples, whilst I, Sherlock Holmes, saviour of those in peril and solver of puzzles has really made a mess of things. John Watson would be more than amused, a told-you-so expression souring his countenance:

"Too many cases, Sherlock, and not enough respite. Sloppy and unprofessional. Shame on you."

Initially, I was slightly perplexed as to why the faithful retainer had not contacted me immediate to the discovery having been made, then I recalled (_what is ailing with my memory? My mind palace has been reduced to a shaken snow globe and I seem helpless to corral my thinking_) his emissary mentioning the family would be away for the next two weeks and the treasure placed in a safe place until their return. Knowing Herr Schwartz as I did, I felt certain he wouldn't be the kind of faithful family serf to peek and tell, and therefore the Lebkuchen treasure was likely to remain unopened for the next week. Which was just as well.

My brain may well be pickled by unwelcome sentiment and inexplicable urges, but I do have an international reputation which I intend to hold onto. I flick open the case again and run my fingers across its uneven surface (_no glow, no pulsing light – that dream refuses to retreat into the morning ether, as most do_). Ugly, possibly even cursed (_if you go in for that sort of fairytale_), but I am determined to return it before further damage is done. Mistakes of this nature simply cannot be tolerated, and the mere fact that they happen must be explained in two words:

Molly Hooper.

If I needed further impetus to eschew all notions of romantic liaisons, this would be it. There must be no more wild imaginings and ridiculous scenarios in my head. I need to delete Molly Hooper, and the sooner I do, the kinder it will be for everyone. I will have my work, my beauteous laboratory and an occasional opportunity to tease Mycroft – what else should I need?

A tremulous ring on the bell? At this time? The slight hesitation, the over-compensation accorded by a firmly thrusted digit … I have heard it all before; I recognise the signs – a matter of the heart, a longing and a loss – such a specific client makes my skin tingle and I am almost distracted from my most recent conundrum (that damned brooch is even haunting my subconcious) as I stride down the stairs to answer the door.

**~x~**

Oh, this is awkward.

This is so beyond the parameters of what is awkward, that I am almost unable to contemplate my new state of being.

I sit (John`s chair) and face Sherlock Holmes. He sits and looks at me. I won`t be out-looked by him, so I am staring right back. With a basket of gingerbread on my knee. He has a rather large and cumbersome black briefcase on his. He picked it up the moment we sat down, as if its proximity to the floor was somehow a dangerous option.

He looks tired. And beautiful, of course. _Bloody Victorian consumptive_ – how well he works that look. Dark curls, sharp contours, eyes that could hold galaxies in their thrall (_don`t judge me, since I am Love`s red-headed step-child, and it has slapped me down too many times_); white shirt, blue dressing gown. Stiff as a poker and as uncomfortable as a beehive in a sleeping bag.

Crap. I knew this was a mistake. I am about to unload my gingerbread and leave when he starts into life, much in the manner of a clockwork toy.

"I`ve made a mistake and I have to put it right."

_Oh, dear lord._

He is rummaging around in the briefcase, eventually retrieving an old black box with a broken clasp, which he proffers to me.

It`s a jewellery box.

_Oh, dear, dear lord._

It is very old and very beautiful; no Regency delicacy nor Victorian filigree, but a roughly hewn chunk of ancient gold inlaid with five diamonds. It feels heavy and honest; almost primitive, and strangely hypnotic to look at.

I tear my eyes away to the sounds of Sherlock Holmes opening drawers, accruing wallets, phones and keys and shouldering on his jacket.

"That," he gestures towards the brooch, "needs to be restored to its rightful owners."

Then he looks up at me abruptly, just as I am holding it up to my hair in an inexplicable moment of vanity, and glancing in the mirror. I see his jaw tighten and a faint flush appear across his cheekbones and note he has stopped with only one arm inside his coat.

"Oh, I`m sorry, I don't know why I did that. Here, take it – must be terribly expensive – "

"I`m going to the New Forest, to take it back. You will need to come with me."

_Oh, righto, then. _

"I only came to bring Mrs Hudson her gingerbread." My voice sounds reedy and a bit pathetic.

Long fingers take the brooch from my slackened grasp and shove it back into the case. Viridian eyes lock with mine and I fancy I hear the metaphorical clanging of a hefty door opening before me …

"I need you to come with me, Molly Hooper."

_(What do you need?_

_You.)_

"Well – er, ok." (_What the hell are you saying? The Insanity Pixies have hijacked your mouth!)_

And my metaphorical door clunks shut with a resounding finality as I shrug on my crimson duffle coat and clatter down the stairs right after him.

This can never end well.

**~x~**

Anthea had passed him the file mere moments ago, yet in that time, Mycroft Holmes had skimmed, scanned and scurried all its contents into his impressive cranial fortress with indecent speed. Pushing the manila envelope away (so swiftly obsolete), he steeples his fingers in an unconscious facsimile of his younger sibling and considers.

The door swings silently ajar, and Anthea returns, an apple, a kiwi and a banana arranged daintily on a platter. A fruit knife accompanies this arrangement, and Mycroft can barely suppress a sneer as he contemplates it.

"Ah, the unholy trinity. Thank you, Anthea."

"You did request fruit, Sir."

"In the same way that a bear would select berries over salmon if the choice was there. I detest fruit and the effort required both to prepare and ingest it, but needs must." He shifts, slightly, in his chair, indicating a less than desirable waist-band situation.

"It appears that my brother and Dr Hooper have embarked on a trip into the woods to repatriate a bauble to some Teutonic hoteliers."

"He has been rather busy of late; a holiday maybe?"

Mycroft pokes the kiwi suspiciously and without a hint of appreciation.

"Should a foodstuff be furry? No, Sherlock does not take holidays. He finds any kind of enforced relaxation intolerably stressful (as do I). One can only assume this is linked to his most recent client, Friederich Lebkuchen; a Prussian millionaire and resort developer. He has plans to build several hundred log cabins, pool, restaurant complex and sports centre in the heart of the New Forest, bringing much interest and employment to our shores; a most powerful and influential man who`s investment into the British economy must be encouraged at all costs. He is currently renting a mansion deep within the woodland, being notoriously reclusive and almost pathologically shy."

"Oh dear."

"Indeed." He pushes away the platter, apparently defeated. "Sherlock would not have been wrenched from his sofa and burgeoning laboratory for nothing. There has been an error of judgement, and he is endeavoring to repair it."

"Dr Hooper?"

"Oh, she is not the error. She is, in fact, the only reason I am not indulging in some leg-work of my own to retrieve him. All the same, we shall be keeping a weather eye; Sherlock does have a tendency to unsettle the status quo on occasion. To misquote Trakl, I doubt he will drink the silence of God from a spring in the woods."

**~x~**


	5. Bushcraft

_Oh, I get dark oh and I'm in hell  
I need a friend, oh but I can't yell  
Yeah, I'm no good, no good to anyone  
'Cause all I care about is being number one_

This was where the track ran out.

I say `track`, but the past half mile had jarred my (and doubtless, my passenger`s) spine from cervical to sacrem and every pedicle in-between. The last three or four ruts in the carved up buffalo trail masquerading as a road had rattled my jaw so badly, I was forced to spit out part of an amalgam filling through a hastily lowered window. Molly Hooper had a look on her face I could quite decipher, until she laughed.

"Chewing baccy?"

"Filling – literally rattled from my mouth by this terrain."

"Oh, right," (smirk) "thought you`d gone all _Blue Grass_ on me."

And I actually smile (despite my best intentions). She does that, Molly Hooper. She is a witch who conjures the most bizarre responses from me when I least expect to give them.

_Enchantress, witch, demon-masquerading-as-a-human._

Perhaps my utterly illogical and impetuous invitation, flung towards her like a knight`s gauntlet, was the result of such sorcery. I am deep in the late afternoon woodland of an area of England ill-served by GPS and internet with such a creature as my only companion (they do say their magicks are all the more potent if they are _invited_) …

I am clearly doomed

**~x~  
**

****Leaving the car is always a mistake.

I know this from watching far too many horror films (_teens go nuts with sex and drugs in deserted house/woods/theme park and get knocked off, one by one, by scarred and demented homicidal loony_) in my youth. The theory lives in the same stable as `_going down to the cellar even though my torch battery is proving somewhat intermittent_` and `_agreeing to snog in a car with goofy idiot at local creepy and cursed-by-demons beauty spot_`. It is simply a matter of common sense to stay in the car until the RAC arrive (once we get a signal), or get a few branches under the tyres so we can actually roll the car out of the mud ourselves. What is _not_ a matter of common sense is to _leave_ the car, hop over the _locked_ gate and embark on a blind and potentially perilous journey even deeper into said woods in the mad, vain hope of bumping into a house. In six hundred square kilometres of woodland, we have more chance of finding the cottage of the Three Bears and joining them for porridge.

I look at Sherlock Holmes, striding confidently ahead through the dappled and leafy pathway (path, no longer road!) and wonder what he knows of teen horror flicks or, indeed, nursery rhymes. If there are bears at the end of this path, I shall be less than pleased.

**~x~ **

Turns out Sherlock Holmes knows all there is to know about Bushcraft.

It was, admittedly, very immature of me to laugh at the very word (_Bushcraft_ – so sorry, I am enormously childish and quite hungry, so a bit hysterical) but I could not fail to be impressed at Sherlock`s ability to tell wind direction, edible fungi availability _(the strikingly scarlet Elf-Cup mushroom)_ and the best place to erect a tarp and hammock camp (nowhere, as it turned out). I had also, always wondered why he needed to wear a coat around London with such ridiculously deep and numerous pockets – seems, after an hour or two traipsing the endless trails of the New Forest, I was to find out.

Crouching down in a small, flattened grassy area, Sherlock makes me crouch down alongside him and view the contents of his pockets, since he feels I will be rendered reassured by them. They are thus:

1 x folding _Fjallkniven TK4_ knife (do not try to be a smart-arse and unfold with one hand, since blood had already been shed).

1 x Swedish firesteel (`_Fireflash`_) to render a roaring blaze from a pile of damp trees. Hopefully.

1 x sharpening (whet) stone to render the _Fjallkniven_ totally lethal when necessary.

2 x whistles (_Fox40 Micro_ – eardrum splitting, I am told) – so we can signal if separated (the human voice, apparently, soon becomes hoarse and dry if deprived for food and water for more than 36 hours)

1 x _microligh_t LED light with dimmer control (in case you wanted romantic ambience in a deserted and perilous woodland setting) which weren`t in his pocket, but around his neck, jostling for space on a cord with one of the Fox40`s – how had I not noticed this before?

1 x 20 metre length (folded) of paracord, with a 550lb breaking strain. This is fabulously useful for bow-drilling, shelter building and (allegedly) improvised snow shoes, at a pinch.

1 x small roll of Tinder (waxed paper) which was to be used to help light fires, but only in `_absolute emergencies_` (I may have to mention it to him when one of those comes along).

1 x tough looking (yet very compact) waterproofed torch, with rubberised O-rings and running on a CR123A lithium battery (apparently, the alkaline version was heavier and failed to work in low temperatures – a bit of a worry in a British June).

1 x blister pack of iodine tablets for water purification. I did point out that iodine had been banned for this in the EU since October 2009 (yes, I am also nerdish in certain matters), but he maintained that nothing saw off the tougher parthogens like Giardia or crytosporidium better, so we both agreed that chlorine was for wusses and it was iodine all the way … but I digress

1 x 3 pack of unlubricated condoms (I cocked a brow at him when I glimpsed them, but was assured of their obvious water carrying capabilities with such a glare of impatient irritation that I remembered who it was I was talking to. Shame on _me_, it would seem.)

2 x snares for animal trapping

1 x Silva Ranger 27 compass, complete with sighting mirror, giving it the additional use of being a signaling device.

So there you have it.

What else could a city girl like myself possibly need for survival in the deep and dark woods of the English countryside, just as dusk was filtering its unmistakable tendrils around the edges of the forest?

Nothing.

Except not being in that forest at all.

**~x~**

I must admit (begrudgingly) that I did not entirely predict the poor quality of satellite coverage in this part of the New Forest; however, my compass has reliably informed me that our trajectory remains accurate, and _Lebkuchen Manor_ remains 55 degrees north east from our current location, attainable (at our present rate of travel) in one hour and forty five minutes (approximately).

As an unfortunate consequence of my _bewitchment_ (if not a real word, then absolutely should be), I find that further travel is rendered impossible by the presence of Molly Hooper. For some reason, she finds it both unpalatable and impossible to contemplate another minute of walking through the night.

"Tree roots, hidden streams, precipices, man-traps and wendigos," she lists, caustically, as I begrudgingly unload my pockets to set up camp.

I decide not to question the precise nature of her list as I gradually realise she may be right. Traversing miles of woodland, even with an exceptional torch, may prove of little value overall. A twisted ankle would seriously scupper any chances of repatriating Herr Schwartz with the correct briefcase in the foreseeable future, thus I pull my ridge line tight and check my half hitches, finishing with a flourish (and a Prussick knot). In the absence of guy-lines, I have adapted both Molly`s and my shoe laces as she (rather sulkily, I sense) fashions a mattress of sorts from pine needles and soft bracken. The makeshift camp is further enhanced by a rather impressive attempt at a Swedish log stove, fashioned from an upturned log, hacked half open with my knife and set to burn with dry needles, birch bark, thin and dry hemlock twigs and just a touch of tinder. It blazes up beautifully and I barely need a dash of pine resin to aid combustion.

"Sherlock Holmes, boy scout," comes a voice from the darkness (_Circe, siren, thaumaturge_ …)

I look across at her small face; its smooth and sculpted planes a perfect porcelain medium for the reflected gleam of the dancing flames. Her brown eyes have taken on a flickering orange opalescence as she stares deep into the fire and I am struck by the strangeness of the moment:

She, being hypnotised by fire and I, being hypnotised by _her_.

"A – thw – warted hobby of my childhood." It seems my tongue is currently thick and useless in my mouth (more sorcery, no doubt).

"Thwarted?"

"The local scout troop refused to take me away again after my first camp, at the age of nine."

"Oh, but what could you possibly have – oh, you did something bad, didn't you?"

"Honesty was always vigorously promoted and encouraged throughout my time as a cub scout, yet when I pointed out, during a surprise fire drill, that Arkela was not to be found in her own tent, but rather the tent of Mr Rodgers, the Cub Leader, there was a great deal of fuss and my mother was asked to find a new troop for me. I had, by then, decided the company of a vast number of homesick and less than capable camp-mates was not something I wished to pursue, so I ended my association with the institution without regret. I did miss camping though. Mycroft would never come with me, since he has a pathological hatred of crawling insects and sleeping bags, and my chosen career really doesn't offer many opportunities – until now."

I poke the fire, removing a haunch of grey squirrel with the business end of my knife, offering it across to my co-bivouac-er.

"Squirrel?"

Her teeth gleam bright in the reflected firelight as she grins and gingerly picks the rodent meat from the knife tip.

"Don`t mind if I do," she adds, then my cursed heart lurches in my chest, and I know (despite the powers of the Silva Ranger 27) that I am _lost lost lost_, and there is nothing more to be done about it.

**~x~**


	6. A house in the woods

_And I light up the sky  
Stars that burn the brightest  
Fall so fast and pass you by  
Spark like empty lighters _

Much in the fashion of a fallen tree … if you lay down with a man you are in love with in the middle of a forest, are you really in love at all? Or with the man? Or in a forest? It is a shame that philosophising isn`t something I`m good at; I work around too much death to have time to consider the reason we are here (too busy working out the reasons we are not).

The noises of the night-time forest squeak, murmur and creak around our slightly billowing tarpaulin. Sherlock`s knots hold tight and true and the torque of his makeshift shelter would make any survivalist proud. I hear the sudden, almost otherworldly resonance of a hooting owl (or wendigo, take your pick) and the answering clicking of some beast of the ground, chattering to a beast of the air in its own night time rhythm. I can smell wood smoke from the smoldering tree stump, who`s embered glow gives outline to the deep and absolute darkness of the woodland night. No orange fug of night pollution troubling these skies; I peek around the tarp to glimpse a sliver of sky beyond the branches of the highest trees – an inky river of glittering lights – a slash of mercury thrown across a black velvet curtain. All so far away, yet so utterly _alive_, and twinkling and _relevant_, like an everlasting promise from the past to the future.

Goodness, perhaps philosophy is more my forte than I realise.

Sherlock`s heavy Belstaff coat lays across us both – it was our only option, since even its capacious pockets couldn't quite stretch to storage of a sleeping bag or two. The mossy, bracken is hellish prickly, but surprisingly soft and welcoming. There is a chill in the night air, despite being the middle of June, and I am truly glad of the benefit of a good coat and a warm friend.

_(Friend)_?

Sherlock stirs and turns a little, but his face is still away from me. I am close enough to feel the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt, but I lie, as stiff and tense as a plank of 4 by 2, determined not to touch his sleeping form and to last the night in the woods as best I can, with the owls, stars and clicking insects as company. Truthfully, I could not do much to explain my current situation (_even if interrogated by Mary Watson – a genuine possibility_); my visit with the gingerbread, my posturing with ancient jewellery, my mindless agreement to drive to the New Forest instead of eating prawns with Walter White; my slack-jawed compliance to walk through unknown woodland without good maps or good sense on some very dodgy mission of repatriation – all of it adds up to nothing more than a hefty helping of crazy. Yes, I love Sherlock Holmes with a pathetic pain in my heart, but, dear reader, what the hell am I doing here?

I feel in my pockets to check my small packet of yellow labels, like a talisman.

Molly Hooper, you are not in your right mind – there is a spell cast upon you and you seem utterly unable to resist its _thrall_.

A loud squawking and some fluttering branch activity in the higher reaches of the tree above us makes me start a little and a tiny gasp judders, unbidden, from my lips. He stirs again, turning towards my back, which is curled, shell-like and rigid. I press my eyes shut and find I am holding my own breath as I feel his nearness and warmth. An insistent heartbeat thuds in my ears (can he not hear it?) and I fancy I feel him sigh a little, and I know his words will break the spell …

But nothing is spoken, nothing is said, and the night goes on, untroubled by its prisoners.

**~x~ **

Fingers are cool, yet warm and subtle of their design – feather-light stroke across my clavicle, my sternum, my shoulder. Breath is soft, yet slightly laboured; heat is rising, growing, pulsing, almost glowing. His head is bowed and dark waves brush against my cheek, then chin and throat; so soft and wood smoked from the fire – _just him_ – just perfect. An opalescent, silver moon casts wide its sickly shadow across these night time creatures (_us, and the beasts beyond the trees_) and his shoulders rise above me, and gleam incandescent, _ill-met by moonlight_ in our shadowy bower. Skin (mine) so hot and so feverish and therefore, so miraculous that his touch both soothes and inflames together. His mouth, so close, his words exhale across my lips before he kisses me, and I am unsure whether it is that I hear them, or breathe them in:

"_You were so lost, but I have found you."_

I open up my eyes, since the glow of the moon grows stronger, deeper, brighter. I lift my arms and draw him in, reveling in the dazzling light, which now illuminates the clearing, the trees, the crushing embrace of us, in this sylvan glade. But, I know this is wrong, and as I reach up to touch the golden brooch in my hair, which pulses with the light of one thousand embers, I instantly know that I am dreaming, and I use the milliseconds before I wake to the cold, grey dawn, to contemplate the pitiful sense of loss of the unrequited.

**~x~**

Lebkuchen House lies deep within the New Forest. The Rhinefield Walk (loved by tourists) takes the visitor across the Ober Water to the climb up Aldridge Hill, populated by spruce, pine and masses of rowan, bristling its bright red berries, like a bold adornment. The house, a large, gravel-driven arts and crafts double fronter, rising like a monochrome doll`s house, out of the mist of an early morning. Huge hawthorn and wild rose hedges surround the grounds, almost shielding from any passer-by, and scarlet rhododendron bushes chauffeur the visitor towards the front door, resplendent, yet homely, with its green panelled doorway and beaten copper bell pull. Minton tiles line the porch, and a musty smell of old leaves and damp newspaper greets the visitor who arrives without both invitation and certainty of welcome.

Molly Hooper, only slightly frayed around the edges and (to the casual observer) bright-eyed and perky in red duffle and pony tail, stands calmly as her companion tugs the bell rope. His agitation can be more closely observed by the person who sees his nicotine-deprived tremor and tightened grip upon a black, battered briefcase.

Ten minutes later, both parties (footsore and beyond frazzled) stand at the bottom of the drive, contemplating their hostile reception.

"Shall we just put the brooch in the post and hope for the best?"

Sherlock Holmes casts a weary eye and decides that he is a better detective than he is survivalist.

"Last year, Gretchen Lebkuchen was reported to have died from meningitis. At the age of twenty one, she was the youngest daughter, with a potentially glittering career in chocolate making ahead of her …"

He stands, lost in thought, but sea-green gimlet eyes are utterly focused, and Molly Hooper sees his gaze devour the exterior of the house, extrapolating every detail (well not _every_ detail, she corrects herself, only the ones that matter).

"You`ve seen something, haven`t you? This isn`t just pique at being sent away without a chance to explain ourselves, is it?"

But he already has his phone out and is texting rapidly. Also –

"You`ve got the internet!"

"I`ve got _their _internet. Wi-Fi passwords are so easy to determine; always comes down to a touch of narcissism."

And she leans over his shoulder just in time to see him type in `_Gingerbread_`.


	7. The Princess in the Tower

Gretchen Lebkuchen. Beautiful, privileged, talented, deceased. If you believe everything you read in the gossip columns and plastered across Twitter by the _Chatterati_ (which I do not) that is. I believe that Herr Friederick Lebkuchen made a huge error of judgement when he allowed his emissary to employ me to find his brooch. I believe that his daughter is alive and that she is right here, in his overly-protected little cottage, in the heart of a great forest. Seven signs alerted me to the presence of guard dogs, in addition to several well-hidden (well-ish hidden, actually) CCTV cameras and the state of the art locks on all windows. Hardly in keeping with a fairy tale cottage in the woods. And why, I must speculate, would a homely housekeeper need a swipe key card (also, very high spec.) attached on a chain around her neck? Does our Teutonic property developer have a priceless wine cellar or artwork stuffed beneath his homely dwelling, or is he not so much keeping people out, but actually keeping people in? One person, in fact.

Gretchen.

A torn wisteria beneath the third window along on the third floor brings my eye to the ground beneath. Even from this distance, I note a trampled and disturbed flower bed (the general up-keep of the garden is excellent, and I always find myself drawn to the out-of-place), and the footprints are large (over a size eleven) and plentiful, indicative of a struggle or altercation. A possible escape attempt, foiled by security guards? In a side note, a delivery of four cartons of milk seems a little over-generous for such a skeleton staff of two when the family are away, so …

A tug upon my sleeve and I focus to see Molly Hooper`s face (_oh, that face_) staring intently into my own. How long have we been standing here?

"Sherlock, we need to go. Curtains are twitching, and I do not want to end this charming excursion being chased into the woods by the big dog of Baskerville!"

_(Damn John Watson and his literary flourishes)_

Yes, I agree, inside my head. We need to go, but then we need to come back, because if there is anything I hate, it`s when a client is not as truthful as they might be; mystery at one end of a problem is bad enough. As I escort Molly Hooper through the towering hedgerows and back down the drive, a happy little voice bounces around my head and causes a tiny smile to tug at my mouth.

_We will be back, Gretchen, and we will see why you are a prisoner in your own home._

**~x~**

"Yoghurt?" Mycroft Holmes speaks the word as another might say "_mucus._"

Anthea marginally inclines her head as she offers the tray (with spoon), since a nod would somehow reduce the efficacy of her aloof and absolute tranquility.

"We have word from the New Forest," she offers, alongside the lamentable health food, and Mycroft`s querulous eyebrow is all the question she needs.

"Some irregularities have emerged. We await further developments."

Mycroft petulantly tugs at the silver lid, remembering, only just in time, the fate of his tie the _last time_ this happened.

"Oh, Sherlock," he sighs, as he abandons his task.

**~x~**

Obviously, he has returned.

As have I.

Herr Lebkuchen is the very epitome of Germanic good manners and hospitality, and has no qualms to admit us (Molly did advise that we should endeavor to walk proudly up the main drag two hours after our less than impressive first attempt, to show we have nothing to hide and everything to offer. I do see the good sense in her proposal, yet have a slight regret I shall not be employing my cat-burglaring skills and adept finesse at creeper climbing; there has been a well-received blog on the subject).

We are furnished with gluhwein and nuts (I advise Molly against imbibing either) and left momentarily in the cosily-furnished sitting room whilst our host goes to see what is keeping his wife. Herr Friederick Lebkuchen affects a ruddy jowelled, wild haired bohemianism that telegraphs nothing but welcome and conviviality, but we know better, no?

Molly is clearly agitated and my distracting and (slightly) inconvenient love for her alerts me to the fact that she is … worried? I attempt a stab at reassurance (_not my strong suit_):

"I am 92% certain that Ms Lebkuchen had formed a relationship with Wilhelm Paniermehl, youngest son of the family who stole this brooch (I gesture towards the briefcase we have with us) and almost certainly intended to run away and marry him at the earliest opportunity (_love turns people into impetuous idiots, and I should know_). Our host heard word of this and could not risk the two families becoming inter-linked after centuries of hatred and rivalry."

"How very Montague and Capulet of them," she whispers back, with the ghost of a wink, and I (for the thousandth time) feel a glow deep within as I revel in the _joy of her_.

"Indeed," I say.

Time, however, is of the essence and my plan must be set into action. It is only as I retrieve the fire steel from my pocket and hold it to the small pile of magazines next to the table that her horrified eyes alert me to the suspicion I may not have shared my plans … _verbally._

**~x~**

_Shitshitshitshit_!

_Chaos!_

Utter chaos.

A fire alerts the Lebkuchen`s and their very responsive sprinkler system, but not before all parties are seen racing up the stairs to the third floor (rather than the door into the garden where safety lay) and I instantly know that Sherlock was right about Gretchen.

Smoke belches through the house as the efficacy of the sprinklers attempt to smother the flames, but do little but succeed in creating more acrid, blinding smoke. Cool fingers grasp around my wrist and I am wrenched from the sitting room, bundled into the corridor and unceremoniously shoved out of the back door, where cool evening air fills my lungs and soothes my stinging eyes. Sitting, sprawled in the damp grass, next to a rather showy patio area, I realise Sherlock has gone back into the house to tackle some very angry and panicky German daughter-abductors, and that he is extremely out-numbered (several bulky security men had been noticed lurking as we entered the house) and almost certainly un-armed (although, when I consider those bottomless pockets, I do wonder …).

I leap to my feet, then I dither, and hesitate – he already has to search and rescue one damsel in distress – am I really wanting to become another? My contact lenses mean my eyes are streaming and I sense I would be better off calling the police for reinforcements rather than _Lara Crofting_ it up the smoke filled staircase. I glance back at the windows – the smoke has filled the downstairs and permeated to the second and third floors – _Oh, God, Sherlock_ – and I make a sudden, determined move towards the still open back door.

But I don't get very far, as a large, muscled arm, with absolutely no hint of welcome and conviviality has grabbed me around the waist and another around my mouth, and I know a struggle is useless.

**~x~**


	8. The Prize

Two years lying low in the slums and flop houses of Eastern Europe has taught me nothing if not the useful ability to find my way around a new environment with my eyes shut. Tying my scarf (wet from a flower vase) around my mouth has helped greatly with the choking smog, but I have to rely on my sense of touch to find the bedroom of Gretchen Lebkuchen in this large house (it was rather fortuitous I committed its external layout to memory earlier in the evening – I just hope there are no secret rooms in the style of Glamis castle; that would be most inconvenient). Thundering elephants behind me on the stairs choke, cough and collide into each other with predictable (yet convenient) confusion which allows me unchallenged access along the third floor corridor and I count the rooms (now on my hands and knees, since smoke rises) one … two … three … ah, this is it –

Pick-pocketing the housekeeper and relieving her of the key card had been effortless and much more preferable to running at a door (people do sometimes make it so hard for themselves) and I silently enter Gretchen`s flower filled prison. Incredibly thin, pale and wasted as she is, she opens her eyes and their whites are tinged with a purple hue and I know the evil work of a regularly administered neuro-toxin which has kept her silently entombed here.

I pull down my scarf so she can see my face and I whisper:

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and you have to trust me."

And she lifts her tiny, frail, bird-boned arms towards me, allowing me to lift her (she weighs almost nothing) and I hold her close to my coat, allowing her to whisper back:

"Mein Vater ist ein Monster."

And I run back into the dark, swirling corridor, where vapours welcome us into their tenebrous embrace.

**~x~**

The garden.

People are shouting (in several languages), smoke is belching from the house (sprinklers perhaps not so state of the art as first believed) and Sherlock Holmes stands, holding a starved, frail and betrayed daughter in his arms, whilst the arms of her wicked, wicked father encircle the struggling body of Molly Hooper in a completely horrifying stand-off. Sherlock looks and sees and he does not hesitate. Putting Gretchen down carefully, he reaches within his breast pocket before any smoke-befuddled henchman can cock his pistol and holds something out towards Herr Friederick Lebkuchen. Through the smoke and chaos, the glint of gold can be clearly seen, and the man slightly loosens his iron grasp of Dr Hooper as his eyes find his gem; his birthright which had been lost for so long.

"Meine Brosche, meinen Preis*," he murmurs, letting Molly fall to her knees and reaches up.

But Sherlock`s eyes are snapping with a dark, cold, hard burning, as he sneers:

"Nein, Sir, Ihre eigentliche Preis gefangen Sie. Diese? Das ist alles Schall und Rauch**," throwing the Lebkuchen brooch as hard as he can towards the house, where it smashes through the window, allowing more air in to fan the growing flames.

What happens next is so swift and fatal that even the eyewitnesses at the time could not exactly determine how such events came to pass.

**~x~**

I sit, perched on the rear steps of the ambulance, clutching an odd (yet strangely comforting) red, fuzzy blanket around me, whilst Detective Inspector Lestrade chews the end of his pen (I note it has already begun to leak and within a minute or two, a dark blue streak of ink will creep across his tongue, and I contemplate whether I should mention it. Or not.) and affords me yet another of his befuddled looks. I do cherish those, and this is truly an exceptional example. He is more befuddled than I have ever before witnessed (including the case of the missing suitcase, which John Watson has insisted on naming something much more ridiculous) and I do actually understand why. But I still enjoy _the face_.

Molly Hooper sits next to me in an identical blanket of her own (although hers is newer – _I know lint_), swinging her legs and attempting to appear nonchalent in front of a third party. I know, however, that she is not. A small tremor in her left foot and a nervous grin that holds a second too long and never reaches her eyes gives her away.

"So, again, let me get this straight – Lebkuchen drops Molly, she crawls away; you throw the brooch into the house, and he runs after it."

I nod, but I note the foot tremor has increased.

"Then – " he removes the pen (_damn_) and points to the pad wherein lie his notes. "Then, he hesitates, since his house is going up like a ruddy tinderbox ..."

I nod again. Her foot is now tapping on the edge of the bumper, in staccatto rhythm.

"... So, then (I do wish Lestrade would invest some effort in learning more varied time connectives to use in his speech), Gretchen, the daughter, half drugged and weakened by starvation, gets some kind of strength together, stands up and pushes her dad into the open doorway, and into the flames, where he burns to death, caught up in some kind of explosion."

I nod again. I seem incapable of forming words. It must be the smoke inhalation.

"Sherlock, I may not have gone to university to study the classics, but this is bloody Grimm."

I am watching the foot and give him a half glance.

"It is indeed a gruesome turn of events; however, he was a very bad man. Investments in property were merely surface deflection; sex trafficking and blood diamonds were also his bread and butter."

Lestrade stares at me and catches me looking at Molly Hooper`s foot. He may sometimes be a fool, but he is also a detective (of sorts).

"No, I mean _Grimm_, as in the fairy tales," he consults his book and (_glory be_) puts the pen back in his mouth.

"A starving man steals a family treasure and that man and his decendents are cursed for centuries. The family live in a fortified house (castle) in the middle of a huge forest, while their daughter sleeps upstairs, prisoner in a locked tower. In comes a knight to rescue her, and she, being rescued, pushes the dad into the flames, like the old witch in Hansel and Gretel. Meanwhile," he pauses for effect (I suspect), "we find your car abandoned at on a deserted, muddy track and only manage to find you by following the stickers."

I look at him. I think I may be staring.

"Stickers?"

He is also now looking at Molly, who grins back, rather alarmingly.

"Big, yellow stickers from the Path lab at Bart`s. She stuck them on the trees, so you could find your way back – like breadcrumbs."

He looks up at me and smiles.

"Whatcha think of that bit of reasoning, Mr Consulting Detective?"

I consider, as I feel beneath the blankets, find and grasp the trembling, cold hand of Molly Hooper in my own, hot one.

"Your tongue is blue," I say, simply.

**~x~**

* * *

**A/N: * My brooch, my prize!**

** ** No Sir, you imprisoned your real prize. This? This is all smoke and mirrors.**


	9. What we deserve

**Don't wanna talk anymore  
I'm obsessed with silence  
I go home and I lock my door  
I can hear the sirens**

**I see buildings and bars from the window  
And I listen to the wind blow  
I see people and cars covered in gold  
And I'm happy to be on my own**

**(Solitaire - Marina &amp; the Diamonds)**

* * *

The day I receive the letter is the day the last workman leaves my laboratory and it is, at last, mine.

I sit at the marbled workbench and marvel at what can be done with enough unquestioning imput and an indecent degree of finance.

Perfection.

Lights twinkle in all the right places; a solid and comforting hum drones soothingly from the homogeniser and refrigerators. Frighteningly expensive glassware populates immaculately polished shelving units, and drawers of slides positively vibrate with anticipation.

As do I.

"Sherlock! Where are you? I don`t like how many places you might be since this laboratory has been built. I could never find you when you only had 221B – oh, there you are, dear. Enjoying the silence?"

Ironic as this statement is from the noisiest landlady in London, I am in embarrasingly good humour, so I restrain any potential barbs and smile (I have been practising in the mirror, and I am rather adept these days).

Mrs Hudson emerges from the stairway down into the spot-lit heaven of my new obsession and looks around, much in the manner of a startled faun, as she holds out a letter, vaguely in my direction.

"For you, dear. Not even posted; hand-delivered, if you please – in this day and age ... oh, Sherlock, could you not have softened it up with a few potted plants? It seems bare ... stark."

I smile. I know. Perfect; _perfect._

_**~x~**_

_**Hard like a rock, cold like stone  
White like a diamond, black like coal  
Cut like a jewel, yeah I repair  
Myself when you're not there**_

_Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,_

_Please forgive me for writing to you in this manner, but I realise a man like yourself may have found himself wondering, a little, about the events of the past few weeks. I enjoyed meeting you and found your mind to be both sharp and impressive. It is now that thought which urges me to profer you something of an explanation._

_What I am about to disclose to you will, I am sure, be filed away in your casebook under the title of "Fairy Tales and Nonsense" since I know how much you disparage the other-wordly from reading Dr Watson`s accounts of you. However, as an intelligent man who welcomes new knowledge in the way others welcome oxygen, I suspect you may, at least, lend me a moment of your time._

_Herr Friederich Lebukchen was the cruellest of men who hailed from the cruellest of our ancient families. During the famines of the early medieval times in Europe, the Lebukchen family did nothing to help the serfs and farmers tied to their lands and working for the most basic of payments. Hundreds of people died, and when the people rose up and broke into their castle, taking anything they could either eat or sell, those caught were punished and tortured in the horriblest of ways. The Paniermehl family paid dearly for their ancestor`s theft of the Lebkuchen brooch. They were hounded for centuries and their name was blackened by falsehood and rumour. _

_This brooch, you must understand, carried a strong and infamous curse known to the whole of Bohemia and most of Germany. It is said, Mr Holmes, that the true power of the gem is that it brings its owner everything he or she deserves. Herr Lebkuchen and his descendents ensured that their evil deeds continued and were masked by a surface veneer of good deeds, investment and philanthropy, and all the while, the Paniermehl family took on the role of villain with their lives forever cursed._

_I must confess my truth to you now, Sir, and that truth is that I was not employed by Herr Lebkuchen, or indeed any other agency you would have cause to know. I am an emissary of a much higher power and answer only to them. My job was to ensure that the brooch was returned to the family from whence it came, so that Friederich Lebkuchen could indeed be given everything he deserved. And so, with your help, Mr Holmes, this came to pass._

_Whatever your views on the fates and providence, Mr Holmes, I am sure that you will agree that Herr Lebkuchen and his brooch being united brought a certain serendipity to the universe. I am also certain that many will agree with me, not least victims of his many distasteful business enterprises and his daughter, Gretchen. Whether you believe a family curse has any bearing on this turn of events is, obviously, a matter for your own cerebral machinations._

_You see, sir, if I may be so emboldened; what our unfortunate client expected from this object`s return was further wealth and prosperity, and what he actually got was Sherlock Holmes turning up on his doorstep. Isn`t the universe of an astonishing design? Everything fits together so wonderfully in the end, no matter how long it takes._

_Mr Holmes, I do understand that you may feel you have been utilised in the most dishonest and underhand of ways in this project, but I would like to assure you that this was never our intention. My employers are the most meticulous of planners and are never able, in their line of work, to waste an opportunity. Discretion must be employed and too detailed an explanation cannot be offered, suffice to say that both your and Miss Hooper`s involvement in this expedition was not accidental. Whether you trust in ancient ways and magicks or not, the universe is always out of balance when something is not as it should be. There is nothing more satisfying than when people actually do get what it is they truly deserve._

_Look upon what you have, Mr Holmes, and reflect on the ways of the universe. What __**should**__ be brought together __**will**__ be brought together._

_Eventually._

_Yours, in the greatest sincerity,_

_Herr Schwartz_

_**~x~**_


	10. Friends

**Mycroft Holmes: Oh, Sherlock, what do we say about coincidence? **

**Sherlock Holmes: Universe is rarely so lazy. **

**(The Sign of Three)**

* * *

Gregory Lestrade frowns at his phone and Sally Donovan has most of the information she needs.

"What`s the Freak want now?" She cocks one arched eyebrow at her boss, who is now shaking his head.

"Just when I think I might be closer to predicting what he`s going to say next, he spoils it all by changing the goalposts. He wanted the name and address of Lebkuchen`s lawyer, which I duly passed on, despite not having any obligation to –"

"And?"

"Yeah, well, so I send Mr Burgess`s details, and he comes right back with how I`m _wrong,_ and that Lebkuchen had a solicitor called Schwartz dealing with his affairs."

"Freak loves you being wrong."

"But this time, Sally, I`m not. Big list of legals working for our recently barbequed crime baron, but (scrolling for a recent text) a `_black-eyed, white skinned thin man in his late sixties_` isn`t one of `em."

"So, what`s the problem boss? He just doesn't want to accept that he doesn`t know the _nag`s arse_ end of _everything_."

Greg scrolls a little way down and smiles.

"Ah, but, hang on – he didn`t text straight back, like normal, and I waited a good five minutes before getting _this_ reply:

_`Thank you, Greg. SH`"_

There is a pause.

"Holy crap, Boss!" breathes Sally Donovan.

"Yeah," concurs he, quietly.

_**~x~**_

_**And all the other jewels around me**_

_**They astounded me at first.**_

_**I covered my heart in boundaries,**_

_**And all the fakes, they called me cursed.**_

_**But I`m not cursed...**_

_**I was just covered in dirt.**_

A sudden hiss takes me by surprise, but the soothing hum and subdued lighting in Sherlock`s beautiful new toy has generally filled my inner geek with utter and untainted joy.

"It – it is _wonderful_, Sherlock! Beautiful! It`s like a photo-shopped, better equipped, mini-version of Bart`s, transferred over here to Baker Street! And I can`t believe it`s yours."

I spin around, like a Disney princess in a chandiliered ballroom, taking it all in, knowing how happy this will make him.

"You really like it, Molly Hooper? You _approve_?"

The last word is drawn out and teasing and I glance over to him, seated at the bench by the centrifuge, and I know how it can be now.

"Thanks for asking me to see it, Sherlock."

"I could think of no-one better."

I give no moment to semi-awkwardness, and plough on.

"I know, recently ... (_for God`s sake, keep going_) things have been a little ... mad. (_understatement much?_) Between us, I mean."

He looks at me with that all-encompassing, all-knowing gaze and I decide to continue, despite the potential cringe factor, because I can see all the aescerbic, probing, machine-like sharpness has – _gone_.

"I mean, you know – the quarantine in the lab, the _not talking about_ the quarantine in the lab, the misunderstandings at the coffee machine, the bringing of the gingerbread – "

He is staring at me now, but I am General Paton`s war machine, surging ahead till last man standing.

"Yeah, so, Sherlock, this whole New Forest, golden talisman/brooch/daughter saving spree has shown me that we`ve been silly – (_an eyebrow quirks_) – yes, _silly_, about everything. We proved – in the woods – that we are – above everything else – _friends_."

"Friends?"

"Yes, yes, despite everything; all the odd signals and (_now blushing, of course_) _some people`s_ misunderstandings and projections – we can still be friends, Sherlock. I`ve got your back and you`ve got mine. Oh, I know you don`t usually `do` friends, but I think you make exceptions for certain folks, like John, Mary, Wiggins perhaps – and _me_. Hopefully, me."

Well, there it is. I did it. I said what I set out to say and came through it with (I hope) some dignity intact. Truth be told, life isn`t a fairy tale, where happy ever after exists if you search hard enough and slay enough dragons. I am mature and realistic (really). A grown up who doesn`t laugh at words no-one else finds funny (_bushcraft?_); who doesn`t wear bows in her hair or cherries on her cardigan, and who doesn`t pine like a sixteen year old for a person she can never have. Friends are good. Friends are better than good and I would rather have Sherlock Holmes in my life as someone who I can talk and laugh and even camp in the woods with, than not in my life at all.

Yeah, fella. I got your back.

So, why does it all feel so _hollow_?

**~x~**

I watch Molly Hooper set up the experiment on the largest bench of my new laboratory (_will have to think of name for new laboratory; something eloquent and evocative_); a showy little demonstration for the people (_she would, I now realise, term as `friends`_) I have asked to come along to see things up and running. I blush a little at my _shameless_ showmanship, but not enough to retract my invitation and batten down the door of 221C to repel them. She is extremely focussed on the pipette, ensuring just the correct amount of alkaline solution (_batch no. 21_) detatches neatly onto the pristine slide. Her brow furrows and as a stray strand of hair contaminates her eyeline, she puffs (so adeptly) it out of the way without pause. Her pink scalloped collar (new blouse, unsure of colour, keeping it semi-hidden) is uneven and her buttoned cardigan out of alignment (distraction, since she obviously wasn`t late, judging by the Tube pass she has used which runs out at mid day). The pinkness of her cheeks has long since receeded since her small, yet heart-felt declaration a mere twenty minutes ago, yet I do fancy I see a ghost of it in her earlobes, as she senses that I am watching her.

Small, sure fingers adjust the lens of the microscope (so indecently expensive that I ripped the invoice into small pieces and shoved them into the toe of my Persian slipper) and heavily lashed brown eyes look down into its magnificently immodest magnification. No mascara, and no lipstick. Just her. Just Molly. She fidgets slightly in her seat, and stands, and I sense a pain – lower back? Too much standing in her laboratory. Too much time spent at work recently, just like me. Now, look at her. Standing again in _my_ laboratory. Uncomplaining. Helping me impress my – _friends._ She owes me absolutely nothing, and yet she (time after time) gives me everything. Everything I ask for, and often things I don`t even know I need. She is the very best of friends to me; better than I ever have deserved, and yet I am never surer of anything than the one, ascendent fact that now inhabits my brain:

_I do not want Molly Hooper as my friend._

(I stand up from my stool)

_I do not want to be friends with Molly Hooper._

(I step slowly, then quicken towards her)

I_ have reflected upon the ways of the universe, and it appears to know what we do not._

(I reach her bench and she looks up at me)

_We mortals need (at times) to be shown the path, and the more slow-witted amongst us require a veritable breadcrumb trail to lead us to the truth_.

"Hey," she says, and she smiles at me and I feel my throat tighten and my chest lurch like a sailor at sea.

"Hey, Sherlock, you won`t believe what I can see on this – oh ..." (I must look quite odd, I decide, so I speak)

"I love you, and there`s nothing anyone can do about it."

And she stares and stares at me, and I swallow (as if I could take the words back – I would _never_ wish to take them back) as she lifts her hand to the side of my face and touches my skin. Her touch makes me slightly faint, and I sway a little (only a little).

"Oh, Sherlock," she smiles (with her eyes too, this time), "there is _so much_ we can do about it."

**~x~**

" – so, it`s not just a case of `_my microscope is bigger than your microscope_`? More of a – demonstration?"

"Yeah. Some people do use the term `showing off`, but that is Sherlock`s default setting, so I wouldn`t judge him too harshly. He`s pretty proud of this lab."

"Hmm. I`m just worried there won`t be any nibbles at this grand opening. I`ve missed out on lunch for this – oh, hel-lo Wiggins! Archie? Why are you in the hall?"

John and Mary Watson`s entry into 221B brought in the blustery wind and rain that had appeared from nowhere that July afternoon. Noisy weather, noisy entrance, brought up short by the sight of two of Sherlock`s prime protoges sitting on the bottom step of the seventeen stairs that led to Sherlock`s flat.

They look, truth be told, a little glum.

John shakes his umbrella, hanging it up on the rack.

"You two not down there, _oohing and aahing_ at the Hadron Collider`s little brother? Thought you were helping him, Archie? Your mum said so."

Both seated parties look shifty and uncomfortable and exchange a glance.

"Well, I`m not going down there again for aaaages!" announces Archie, scratching at a scab on his knee and shuffling his feet. "Probably never again, in fact." He sniffs.

John and Mary exchange glances and she turns to Wiggins (looking immaculate in purple shirt (Sherlock`s) and brogues (same)).

"What gives, Sherlock Junior? Have you upset him by leaving smudges on his worktops? Arent you two supposed to be helping Molly demonstrate a few things to _wow_ us?"

"Lord, I reckon she`s done that already, Mrs Watson. See, we`ve already been down and – well, we didn`t really expect to see – "

"Kissing!" interjects (a clearly outraged) Archie, unable to contain his indignation a moment longer. "They were _kissing_ each other, in the lab, right in front of us!"

John and Mary just catch the words of Wiggins as they high five each other in the most immature way possible:

"An` I don`t even fink they knew we were there," reflects he, morosely.

**THE END**

* * *

**A/N: So, there we have it. Things are as they should be, and the Universe is satiated once more.**

**Thank you to everyone who read, followed, favourite and reviewed this little story - I am grateful for your time and your feedback (so love the feedback).**

**See you all (hopefully) again soon.**

**P.S. What does anyone think about Victorian Sherlolly? I do like a Victorian setting ... :)**


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